Dorothy read the journal at midnight with the hotel lamp on low.
By the time she reached the last entry, her grief had changed shape again.
It was no longer only sorrow.
It had become purpose.
And the first hearing was only days away.
Part 3
The first thing Grant Ashford’s lawyer tried to do was make Dorothy look unstable.
His name was Whitfield Bradford III, which sounded less like a person than a law firm already at full retainer. He wore hand-stitched suits, used the word boundaries as if it were sacred scripture, and spoke about grief the way some men speak about weather—something regrettable but manageable with the proper equipment.
In the petition for a restraining order, Dorothy was described as emotionally compromised, disruptive to the children’s routine, and prone to irrational hostility toward the surviving parent.
Dorothy read every line in Emmett’s office and felt something cold settle over her.
Not shock.
Recognition.
This was what men like Grant did when facts threatened them. They did not answer the facts. They attacked the witness.
“She was emotionally compromised,” Dorothy said dryly. “Her daughter died.”